


lead me in

by wtfmulder



Category: The X-Files
Genre: Ep: The Rain King, F/M, Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-04
Updated: 2017-08-04
Packaged: 2018-12-11 05:36:44
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,683
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11707899
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wtfmulder/pseuds/wtfmulder
Summary: Waking up after sharing a bed in The Rain King.





	1. seneh

She’s never been much of a cuddler, but it is Mulder’s lot in life to convince her of things. This new approach might be a game changer. She makes no move to untie the human knot, so instead it tightens. He is not awake. 

It’s the possessiveness that stills her. 

His hand on her belly is warm, and huge, poised like he could slide it right down and own her proper. She could tilt her hips, slight of body, of intent, and make it happen. He wakes up to her riding his fingers, the blanket she hogs caught between her teeth. Wouldn’t that be something. A moment to catch on, and – he’s just so good at just going with things. They’d never need to stop…

There’s the unlikely strength of him, all around her. The hardness of his chest to her back like she’s been cornered on brick. The hefty weight of his chin on her shoulder, his breath hot, wet, a marshy, careful organism. His arms, brown and corded marble, absolutely _perfectly_ carved tragedy of a man. They pulled tight around her in a full-body bind, rope and harness and cool dark metal.

But it seems to Scully it is _her_ who has him trapped and trembling, between her parted thighs. In moments of extreme and privately embarrassing sentimentality she has declared Mulder, in her own head, to be too good for this world. This is now confirmed. She needs to fuck him. Jesus _Christ_ , when are they going to fuck? Don’t they deserve this? Her throat closes around a frustrated cry as she stops herself from grinding down on him. God, his cock is long and _thick_ and she’s paid her debts, hasn’t she, paid someone’s debts, anyway, isn’t it time to reap a damn benefit or two or three or however many times it can happen for her in one go – 

“Scully?” Sleep ruined, crunching on loose gravel. In her silence she pinpoints the exact moment he recognizes the predicament they’re in by the hitch of his breath, the sudden tautness of his body. “Shit,” he mutters, pulls at the end of the knot and slides out of the bed.


	2. milk and honey

He wakes from a pleasant dream into a sweeter reality: already he’s suspicious. It’s his own voice that wakes him up, the sound of her name hot and affectionate low in his body.

The pressure on his chest is sudden and alarming – and then she’s in his arms, a miraculous feat of position switching in such short time – and then she is real, is weight and bone enveloped by him, is silk and soap and sleep-warmed skin. Shit. “Shit,” he says. But he is frozen in place as if he never woke up. He does not, cannot move.

Time passes, minutes of dread and want. He is trapped between her legs like a big dumb animal, would chew his own arm off to stay right where he is. She keeps him locked in with promise, not force, because that there space is the promised land – and in the distance is Cohen’s miserable chorus, skim milk and aspartame. But if he were to inch forward…

She inches backward. “Good morning, Mulder.” His eyes close. Someone sucks in a big old breath and it does not help a bit. He doesn’t need to be asked twice. For once in his fucking life, he does not need to be asked twice. He thrusts upwards, lock and key, waits for the go ahead to come on in.

She sighs. “Better morning, Mulder.”

He rolls them over so that she’s flat on her back, so that he’s got her surrounded. Her squeal tells him she’s unimpressed, her reddened face tells him she really, really is. “Should we talk about this?” He asks, already playing with the first button on her top. 

“Why the hell would we do that?” She scoffs. The look of bewilderment makes him ache for her. Well, he doesn’t have to live with it. Resting his weight on an elbow, letting his right hand caress her face, his thumb tip up her chin, he leans in and brushes her lips with his, feather light, a formal greeting.

But he is not afraid to deepen it – there is fear to feel, but he does not, cannot feel it – and Scully tastes of sleep, and is slow with her tongue. He had always imagined her teeth would be sharper.   
Sometimes he takes a break to just let her kiss him, and he listens to how she breathes through her nose, catalogues her moves and stores it all away as evidence. Then he starts back up again, pushing her further into the mattress. Biting her lips and kissing her cheeks, her jaw, every single inch of her neck. Her sounds are pretty, clear and feminine. They are also unmistakably honest. He has never encountered a thing so honest. It urges him on, past blue satin pajamas and and her simple black panties. Past the speechlessness and his flapping, useless mouth. Past stunned awe into acts of mindful worship.

It’s not art that she reminds him of, not the works of patient, precise madmen, nor is she pornography, painted up and exposed for his on-and-off benefit. Scully is a lovely body carrying something altogether much too lovely for his own form to bear, but it does not seem to weigh on her in the slightest. Scully is pert and perky and pink, is ready and healthy and confident. She is not just meant to look at, but to experience, to talk to, argue with, to understand. To taste and smell and touch. He looks anyway. He looks for a very long time. 

His hands are big and she is kind of small – he spans her quickly, he maps her out and she takes the time to help him – to smack him when he tickles her, to hold him in place. She likes, so much, when he leaves his hand on her breast and does not do anything with it. She likes it when he pulls her hair so hard his knuckles turn white. She does not like a hand on her throat, nor anywhere near her wrists. She likes him deadweight on top of her and the heft of his cock and the look on his face when he finds out how wet she is, accuses her of holding out on him and invites her to to taste herself on his fingers, then his tongue.

There is light pouring in through the curtains when he hooks her thighs over his hips and pushes into her. It is a reminder of the world outside, but he does not, cannot bring himself to care beyond a dim gratitude that the only one who had to die for this to happen was a cow. He is fixated on the subtle jiggle of her breasts, her large and peaked nipples. Her breasts were a mystery to him for years. That feeling will never go away.

“Stop that,” he chides, when he’s halfway in and she squeezes down around him. She purses her lips and lifts up her chin, proudly. Does it again. He bottoms out too quick with an intentional jerk of his hips, glaring at her. Giggling, moaning, she spreads her legs and takes him all in, and he fucks her like it’s been six years since he started thinking about it.

He slows down when the headboard slams against the wall, both startled catlike out of the moment, paranoiac squared. But then they laugh and pick it back up, after she does that thing again, and he leans down to tell her that her pussy is by far, by _far_ the best place he’s ever been allowed in, and he grew up rich and very well traveled. She is less put off by this than the fact she seems to be into it.

They tumble, they bite, they struggle to breathe. “Coulda gotta bigger bed,” he mumbles; the sight of Scully always encourages him to play, to test and push, and this is no exception. She shushes him and pulls his head back down to lick and suck at her throat. He does, braindead cock set to autopilot. “Bigger bed. Had I told them about the missus.”

“You’re the missus,” she whispers, and he keens out a laugh as he picks up the pace. That gasp again, her hands making wishes on his scalp, scalpel-like on his straining back.

“Mmm, oh no,” he replies. “I think you secretly like being my missus.” A hard thrust. She’s sweet when she’s caught off guard, breathy and wordless, fists slamming onto and clenching tight in the sheets like she could rip them apart. “You do. Tell me.” She shakes her head, her hair so mussed and messy it could not begin to house a bird. He grips her hip tightly with one hand, holds one of hers with the other one. He brings her fingertips to his mouth, kisses each one, instructs her to touch herself. She does, and he says again: “Tell me that you enjoy being my missus.” 

“You enjoy being my missus,” she smirks. He threatens to pull out, end this whole thing right here. The idea is laughable but she rolls her eyes anyway, throws her head back and knows instinctively that he’s watching her index and middle fingers rub tight half-circles over the hardened bud of her clitoris. He’s getting close. “I enjoy being your missus, Mulder.” Entirely deadpan, but entirely sexy. He watches as she engineers her own perfect orgasm. Watches her face move and her lips tremble when she realizes she loves him. And then he follows, into–

His fist, his back to the stinging spray of the water and his chin pointed to the ceiling like he’s calling to the Gods. What would the weather be like if he had the power. As such he’s powerless, boneless, he has to stop himself from slumping in the tub. In the next room Scully is asleep, unaware, and he does not, cannot think about that.


End file.
